


Vivid Dreams

by starsinursa



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Roommates/Housemates, Castiel and Dean Winchester are Roommates, College Student Castiel, Dorms, First Time, Friends to Lovers, M/M, Misunderstandings, Roommates, Sleeptalking, Student Dean
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-27
Updated: 2017-12-27
Packaged: 2019-02-22 08:30:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,676
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13163163
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/starsinursa/pseuds/starsinursa
Summary: Castiel lives with his best friend, and he thinks this makes him very lucky.With one exception.Dean talks in his sleep.





	Vivid Dreams

**Author's Note:**

> This was written for a tumblr prompt:
> 
> "Dean sleep talks but instead of saying cute things his ramblings are fucking terrifying (ex: "why is the man staring at us?" "there is blood everywhere" etc.) Cas has probably lost 10 years of his life from this. Cute fluffy comedy."
> 
> Come say hi on [tumblr](www.starsinursa.tumblr.com)!

No roommate is perfect. Castiel knows this.

Every relationship requires reaching compromises and learning boundaries, and it’s easier for things for become strained when two people are encroaching on each other’s living space. And squeezing two complete strangers into a dorm room the size of a shoebox and expecting them to get along for a year? Well, in his opinion, it’s a miracle that the number of homicides on college campuses isn’t higher, especially when adolescent hormones, poor impulse control, and underdeveloped frontal lobes are factored into the equation.

So, all things considered, Castiel feels pretty lucky to have Dean as his roommate.

Sure, Dean can be loud and boisterous, and he listens to music too loudly, but it doesn’t bother Castiel too much after the first few weeks. Dean’s questionable “tastes” in music actually start to grow on him, despite his better judgment. He’s even started picking up words to some of the songs, because Dean has a habit of belting out a lyric and then pointing dramatically at Castiel to sing the next verse, and Castiel had gotten tired of the disappointed look on Dean’s face whenever he didn’t know the words, so maybe he had looked up some of the lyrics between his classes.

But it definitely goes both ways, because Dean can pretend he doesn’t like Castiel’s soft jazz or documentaries or fiber-heavy cereal brands, but Castiel hasn’t been fooled since the day he walked into their room and found Dean hunched over his laptop, eyes suspiciously red, transfixed by Castiel’s copy of _March of the Penguins_. Before he could even say a word, Dean had slammed the laptop shut, face flushing red, and snapped, “Shut up, Cas! Some of the eggs didn’t hatch! Stop _laughing_ , Cas!”

And yes, Dean can be a little over-the-top about cleaning (before rooming with Dean, Castiel would’ve thought there could never be such a thing as too clean, but he’s learned differently), but he’s learned to live with it. 

For example, when Castiel comes back from class and spots Dean on his hands and knees scrubbing the baseboards, the smell of Lysol hitting him like a brick to the face, he’s learned that Dean needs space, so he goes to the library for a few hours until Dean’s worked off whatever stress or anger he’s been keeping bottled up. Then he comes back, drags Dean away from wiping out the inside of their desk drawers, and takes him to The Roadhouse for a burger. If Dean decides to confide in him, good; but if not, he can still see the tension easing out of Dean’s shoulders as they sit in the familiar atmosphere, talking about classes, talking about everything and nothing, knees barely brushing under the table.

And, in an effort to do his part, Castiel has started being more mindful about picking up after himself and not leaving his damp towels on the floor. He even tries to remember to make his bed in the mornings, although he forgets more often than not in his haste to get ready for class (not that it really matters because it’ll be made when he comes back, anyways).

And okay, Dean is lively and social and charismatic, and there’s always strange people in their dorm room, but Dean always make a point to introduce Castiel to everyone and try to include Castiel in the conversations, even if he doesn’t have much to contribute. Most of Dean’s friends are tolerable, and Castiel finds himself genuinely liking a few of them, such as Charlie and Benny, and even participating in political debates or Mario Kart games. And on the days that Castiel has a test or a paper due the next day, Dean will unceremoniously kick everyone out without Castiel even having to ask, good-naturedly yelling at everyone to “get lost, moochers, Cas has an Abnormal Psych test tomorrow and he’s gonna kick it in the ass!”. 

And fine, Dean does party quite a bit on the weekends (or on the random Tuesday) and comes back in the middle of the night, inevitably waking up Castiel no matter how quiet he tries to be. But Castiel can’t even hold it against him, because when he tucks Dean’s drunk ass into bed and brings him a glass of water and some ibuprofen, Dean gives him the most profoundly grateful look that it’s almost humbling. Castiel doesn’t deserve a look like that for doing such a simple thing, a thing that any decent roommate would do.

Dean never says anything the next morning after these occurrences, but Castiel knows that Dean remembers, because Dean will find ways to make it up to him for the next week – just small things, like having coffee ready for him before his classes, or stocking up on Castiel’s favorite brand of peanut butter.

So no, Dean isn’t the perfect roommate, but Castiel doesn’t mind. He knows he’s not perfect either. But they have a good system, and they get along pretty well most of the time. There’s still some things that Castiel doesn’t understand – like why Dean insists that he’s dumb even though he’s excelling in his engineering classes – and they still have arguments, sometimes petty and sometimes not, but Castiel can’t imagine being roommates with anyone except Dean.

Although honestly, Dean hasn’t been just “a roommate” for a long time now. Castiel considers the term “best friend” to be much more fitting. Castiel lives with his best friend, and he thinks this makes him very lucky.

With one exception.

Dean talks in his sleep.

___

It’s only three weeks into the school year – only three weeks they’ve been rooming together – when Castiel hears it for the first time. 

He’s still awake, squinting in the glow of his laptop screen, when Dean rolls over in bed and snuffles drowsily into his pillow. He mutters something, too low for Castiel to make out, so Castiel ignores it.

Except Dean repeats it again after a moment, louder and clear as a bell:

“I’m going to fucking kill you.”

The threat – no, the _promise_ – in Dean’s voice is so unequivocal and unexpected that Castiel freezes where he’s sitting in bed, fingertips glued to his keyboard. It feels like a cup of cold water has been dumped down his back, goosebumps skittering down his arms. 

Castiel doesn’t move a muscle, straining for any sound or movement. It’s like he’s frozen in place, barely daring to breathe. 

Sure, he hasn’t known Dean for very long, but he has never, ever heard Dean use that tone of voice before – dark and dangerous. As if he’s fully capable of following through on his threat.

He tries to reason through it. Objectively, he knows his reaction can be blamed on his amygdala responding to the situation and kick-starting a fear response - it’s late at night and their room is dark, Dean startled him, the whole situation is inherently creepy - but he’s still having a hard time getting his unease under control, even though he knows, he _knows_ , it’s stupid. 

But telling himself these things doesn’t stop the hair on the back of his neck from prickling. It doesn’t stop his imagination from running away from him, replaying the ominous tone of Dean’s voice, imagining that maybe Dean did mean it - that maybe even now Dean is creeping from his bed while Castiel has been silently panicking, moving to loom behind him -

There’s a quiet, sleepy sigh, and Castiel whips his head around so quickly that his neck twinges.

Dean is…still in bed. Just sleeping. That’s it. His sheets are kicked halfway down the bed, as Castiel has seen him do every night thus far, and his arms are wrapped around a pillow, cheek pressed against it. His breathing is soft and steady. 

He looks so calm and peaceful that it’s almost laughable.

Castiel wonders if he should casually ask one of his professors for more information about auditory hallucinations.

That is, until Dean shifts in his sleep, eyebrows furrowing, and mutters, “…she can’t go home, the children are dead.”

This might be a very long year.

___

Dean doesn’t talk in his sleep every night, but it’s often enough that Castiel is always on edge as soon as the lights go out. 

He mentions it to Dean after it happens the first few times, but Dean just chuckles and rubs the back of his neck sheepishly.

“I still do that? Sorry, man, I didn’t know. It’s somethin’ I did as a kid, but I thought I outgrew it, no one ever said anything. I just have really vivid dreams, I guess.”

That, in Castiel’s opinion, is a wild understatement, but Dean doesn’t seem to think it’s a big deal, besides seeming a little embarrassed, so Castiel doesn’t push it.

So instead, he tries ignoring it.

A week later, when Dean frowns into his pillow and mumbles, barely audible, “There are bodies in the trees…hanging in the trees…”, Castiel stares at his half-typed reaction paper and tries to will away the cold sweat that breaks out across his forehead.

A few days after that, when Dean fidgets in bed and growls, “I’ll cut off your head,” voice hard and threatening, Castiel clutches his pillow a little tighter, ignores the pounding of his heart, and tries to go back to sleep.

Six weeks into the school year, when Dean sighs and whispers, “Black eyes…so much blood…”, Castiel gives up any pretense of sleeping that particular night and works on a lab report instead, lamenting the heavy, gritty feeling in his eyelids that’s sure to plague him the next day.

___

He only tries waking up Dean once.

Dean must be dreaming very vividly tonight, because he’s been muttering for the past hour, tossing and turning restlessly in bed.

Castiel has tried to tune it out. He’s hunkered over his textbook with the light from his cell-phone, trying to read about the twelve cranial nerves and doing a terrible job of it, because he’s hanging on Dean’s every mumbled word like a person staring at a car wreck - horrified, morbidly curious, and unable to tear his attention away.

When Dean grits out, “Burn the bones, burn the bodies,” Castiel is strung tight as a kite and finally snaps. He sits up, swings his legs out of bed, and crosses the three steps to Dean’s bed. He puts a palm on Dean’s shoulder and shakes.

“Dean.” He shakes a little harder and leans down. “Dean, wake up.”

With a yell that’s practically a war-cry, Dean sits bolt up-right in bed – and he comes up swinging, clocking Castiel right in the face with a balled-up fist before Castiel can even think about stepping out of the way. 

He sports an impressive black-eye for the next week or so, darkening like a purple halo. He’s rather indifferent to it, but he spends the entire time ignoring the curious glances in his classes and in the dorm cafeteria, and reassuring Dean, yet again, that yes, he really is fine, yes, he knows it was just an accident, no, there’s no need to feel guilty, just _stop apologizing already, Dean!_

When Dean’s younger brother, Sam, comes to visit that weekend, he whistles between his teeth and plops onto the edge of Castiel’s bed while they wait for Dean to get back from his shower in the dorm’s communal bathroom.

“Dude, Cas, what happened?” Sams asks, looking awed and a little worried.

Castiel likes Sam. They’ve spent plenty of time together by this time, since Sam visits Dean every chance he gets, obviously idolizing his brother and fascinated with the glimpses into college life. Not only is the 15-year old smart and earnest, but he actually seems to consider Castiel a friend, which Castiel finds touching. He reciprocates the sentiment, despite their age difference.

Which is why he leans forward, only hesitating for a moment before asking, “Sam…did Dean ever talk in his sleep when he lived at home?”

Sam looks a little surprised - whatever he’d been expecting, it obviously wasn’t that - but his face splits into a grin. “Oh, yeah. All the time. He still does that?”

“Oh, yeah,” Castiel deadpans. “All the time.”

Sam doubles over in a laugh. “Oh, man! I had no idea. We shared a room for a while when mom was renovating the house, but it’s been a few years, I didn’t know he still did that. It’s seriously creepy stuff, right?” 

Another wild understatement, Castiel thinks, but he nods.

Sam scoots closer, eyes bright with the thrill of commiserating. “Has he talked about people’s hearts being ripped out of their chests yet?”

“Not yet,” Castiel says dryly - oh goody, he has something to look forward to, “but he talks quite a bit about chopping off heads, and burning bodies in graves, and once he started yelling about zombies.”

“Wow, I never heard about the zombies, that must be a new one.” Sam gapes suddenly at Castiel’s black eye. “Oh no - that’s what happened! You tried to wake him up, didn’t you?”

Castiel grimaces. “It…did not go well.”

“Yeah, I could’ve told you not to try that. He knocked out one of my baby teeth once. It was loose anyways, but mom had a fit. We had our own bedrooms again pretty quick after that. But yeah, you probably shouldn’t try waking him up anymore. He’s a pretty angry sleeper,” Sam says sagely, as if he’s commenting on the weather and not about how his brother wakes up with a penchant for violence.

“Like a bear,” Castiel agrees.

___

The final straw comes on a night in early December. Dean has been quiet for the past couple of weeks, sleeping peaceably. As a result, Castiel has been sleeping as well, blessedly sinking into sleep each night with the fervor of a man who has learned that sleep is precious and not always obtainable.

Sure enough, the calm run is broken tonight by Dean’s voice, hard and loud, breaking through the quiet in their room like a hammer. Castiel is immediately awake. A groping fumble and bleary glance at his cell phone tells him that it’s only 1:07 a.m. He smushes his face back into his pillow and groans – and then stiffens as Dean’s words finally start to filter through his drowsy thoughts.

“ _In nomeni patri_ ,” Dean is saying darkly, and Castiel can hear him shifting restlessly in his bed. “ _Et fili et spiritus sancti_ –“

It’s been a long time since Castiel has reacted this strongly to one of Dean’s dreams, but he’s vaulting out of his bed before he’s even realized it, heart pounding a mile a minute in his chest and blood roaring in his ears. He crosses the space between their beds in three steps and then he’s on Dean, clambering onto the bed and flattening Dean against the mattress, because he is not in the mood to get punched in the face again.

“Dean,” he snaps. “Dean!”

Like Castiel has learned the hard way, Dean wakes with a vengeance and a shout. His eyes snap open, wide and alarmed as he realizes there’s someone pinning him down, and then he’s thrashing and bucking, doing his utmost best to pitch Castiel off.

“Dean!” Castiel roars, nearly in Dean’s ear.

“Jesus fucking Christ, Cas!” Dean yells, flinching away, but he finally seems to realize that it’s Castiel who has him pinned, and he stops struggling. He glares up at him instead, chest heaving a little. “What the fuck are you doing? What’s going on?”

Dean tugs a little at his arms, but Castiel has them pinned at his sides and isn’t letting them go. He’s still not entirely convinced he’s not going to get punched in the face.

Castiel glares right back. “I could ask you the same thing! You were talking in Latin, Dean. Latin! How do you even know Latin?”

Dean blinks, the anger in his eyes fading away to uncertainty. “I – I don’t.” He licks his lips nervously, an unconscious gesture that Castiel can’t stop himself from watching. “You’re positive it was Latin?”

Castiel resists the urge to roll his eyes. “Yes, Dean, I’m positive it was Latin.” He squints down at him, “What were you dreaming about?”

Dean fidgets underneath him. “…demons,” he admits.

Chanting in Latin and dreaming about demons. Castiel thinks he might have a heart attack. He hasn’t been religious for a while, despite growing up in a strict and religious family, but he seriously considers sending up a prayer at that moment.

“Dean…” He says slowly, seriously, “What are you involved in? How are you chanting Latin in your sleep if you don’t know any Latin?”

“Involved in - I’m not involved in anything!” Dean protests, yanking on his arms again. “Calm your shit, Cas. You’re acting like you’re about to call a priest for an exorcism or something.”

Castiel hesitates, and Dean’s mouth falls open in outrage. “Dude, what the fuck! I’m not _possessed_!”

“Then how are you speaking in Latin!” Castiel yells back, anger ratcheting up to match Dean’s. “Explain that!”

“I don’t know!” Dean groans in frustration and thumps his head back on the pillow. After a few moments of tense silence, he sighs. “Just – what was I even saying? Do you remember the words?”

Castiel doesn’t think he’d be able to forget those words if he tried. They’re probably seared into the neurons of his brain, thanks to terror and adrenaline.

“I think only caught part of it,” he admits. “But you said ‘ _in nomeni patri et fili et spiritus sancti_ ’…and then I woke you up.”

Dean gapes up at him, and Castiel stares back, grim. He thinks maybe Dean is finally realizing why Castiel is so concerned, finally understanding the seriousness of the situation – until Dean snorts and starts to laugh. The laugh claws up from his chest until his shoulders, and soon his entire body, are shaking with it.

“This isn’t funny, Dean! Talking in unknown languages is one of the signs of demonic – “

“Cas, stop! I’m not fucking possessed!” Dean blows out a breath, but he’s still shaking with laughter. “That’s the prayer from _Boondock Saints_ , you friggin’ dumbass. I rewatched it with Charlie last night. It must’ve, I dunno, got stuck in my subconscious and come out in my dreams or something.”

“ _Boondock Saints_?”

Dean rolls his eyes. “It’s a movie, Cas. There’s a family prayer the brothers say, and part of it’s in Latin. I swear, you can Google it and everything.”

Dean’s eyes are earnest, and Castiel remembers that Dean did have a movie night with Charlie last night at her girlfriend’s house. Castiel had been invited, but he’d declined so he could spend the weekend finishing up a final research paper, even though Dean had pestered him relentlessly about going and seemed put-out that he kept saying ‘no’.

The tension leaks out of him like a popped balloon. He can feel the laugh bubbling up a moment before it comes out, and he’s grateful that it doesn’t sound quite as hysterical as he actually feels. He lets go of Dean’s arms but doesn’t get off him, unable to do much more at the moment than double over and laugh – at himself, at the whole situation, at the glint of mirth in Dean’s eyes as he grins and starts to laugh again too.

That’s how they stay for several minutes, laughing until Castiel’s stomach aches. He doesn’t think he’s laughed like this since – no, he’s never laughed like this, not once in his life. He’s sure of it.

Finally, with an enormous, steadying breath, he sits back and wipes the tears of laughter from his eyes with the heel of a hand. Dean is still smirking at him.

“Can’t believe you thought I was friggin’ possessed,” he says.

“It was a perfectly logical conclusion,” Castiel retorts, tamping down on the urge to start laughing again. If he gets started, he might not actually stop this time.

Dean shakes his head fondly, and Castiel realizes – quite belatedly – that Dean’s hands are resting gently on Castiel’s bare knees below his boxers, thumbs stroking soothingly across his skin. He’s suddenly aware that he’s still straddling Dean, practically sitting in his lap, and he’s crossed the line of roommate boundaries - even friend boundaries - so thoroughly that it’s probably invisible in the distance, along with any lingering shreds of his dignity. 

With a sigh, Castiel moves to swing his leg and climb off. The sudden grip of Dean’s hands, shooting out to wrap around his biceps and hold him in place, startles him, along with Dean’s noise of protestation.

“Dude, not so fast, I’ve been trying to get you here for weeks!”

Castiel freezes. “What?”

Dean’s green eyes snap wide. “Uh, I mean – what?”

“Dean, what did you say?”

“Pffft - I didn’t say -”

“ _Dean_ ,” he insists, warningly.

“Fine!” Dean says, releasing Castiel’s arms and throwing up his hands. “I said I’ve been trying to get you in my bed for weeks! Happy?”

Castiel frowns, but doesn’t move. “...no, you haven’t.”

“What? What do you mean, ‘no, I haven’t’?” Dean makes an incredulous noise. “Jesus, Cas, I’ve done everything but stand outside the window with a boombox – yes, I know you don’t understand that reference, Cas, that’s not the point. I haven’t gone to a party or on date in like two months because I’m always hanging out with you, I took you to that farmer’s market with all the honey and shit – hell, I invited you home for Thanksgiving!”

Castiel’s voice, when he finds it, sounds quieter and smaller than he’d like. “I thought – I thought you did all of those things because we were friends.”

Dean’s hands are on him again immediately, touching his face, sliding around to cup the back of his head. “Shit, Cas, of course we’re friends! We’re friends, that’s never gonna change, buddy.” The hand winding through his hair pauses hesitantly. “I had just - wanted to be more. Maybe. If that’s something you wanted.” Dean smiles wryly. “I mean, c’mon, you didn’t see me inviting Benny or Charlie home for Thanksgiving, did ya?”

“So – all this time, you’ve wanted to be more?” Castiel’s head is spinning. “You’ve been trying to show me?”

“Well… yeah, Cas.”

When Castiel leans forward, yanks the pillow out from under Dean’s head, and pummels him in the face with it, Dean’s grunt of shock is immensely gratifying.

“Why didn’t you just say something!” Castiel hits him with the pillow again, for good measure. “You know my ‘people skills’ are ‘rusty’!”

“For the love of –“ Dean sputters through another faceful of pillow and fumbles to grab Castiel’s wrists. “Will you stop with the friggin’ pillow!”

Castiel huffs and lets the pillow fall from his fingers, but keeps it within easy reach. To serve as a warning. “You know I’m not good with subtlety, Dean. You should’ve just said something.”

“Yeah, well, I’m saying it now, ain’t I?”

“Saying what? I’m not sure I know what you’re getting at.”

“Cas –“

“Yes, Dean?”

Dean’s sigh is enormous and long-suffering. “God, you suck. Fine.” He meets Castiel’s eyes with determination, but the swallow gives him away. “Cas. I like you, and not as a friend – well, as a friend too, but definitely more than that – and it’d be pretty awesome if you’d let me do shit like kiss you and take you home for holidays and make you watch movies like _Boondock Saints_ with me, because honestly, who hasn’t seen _Boondock Saints_ , that shit is classic, it’s got Willem DaFoe for god’s sake –“

Castiel kisses him. He’s pleased to discover that, while it’s a very enjoyable experience all on its own, it also has the added benefit of shutting Dean up.

___

EPILOGUE:

When Dean shifts in his arms, mumbling under his breath, Castiel snuggles closer and effortlessly lets the words wash over him. 

It’s an amazing thing that Dean’s sleep-talking doesn’t bother him anymore – one of the benefits of sleeping in a bed with Dean these last few weeks, because Castiel is simply too warm and comfortable to “give a flying fuck”, as Dean would say. Let Dean talk and grumble and yell about hounds from hell – Castiel just tucks himself more firmly against Dean’s back, whispers “shhh” into his ear, and falls back asleep to the feeling of Dean relaxing in his arms.

He’s about ready to do the same thing this time, already tugging Dean closer against his chest, when Dean mumbles, “Wings…Castiel…”, and Castiel wakes up a little more, becoming more alert, because - that’s new.

“Castiel…”

Castiel’s curiosity officially gets the better of him, and he starts pressing tickling kisses to the back of Dean’s neck to prompt him to wake up. 

He’s discovered that this is one of the easiest ways to wake Dean up peaceably and to avoid flying fists - not only because the kisses help placate Dean and reassure him that there’s no danger, but also because Dean simply can’t reach Castiel with Castiel spooned behind him out of reach. It’s one of the reasons Castiel always insists on sleeping in this position (not that Dean argues very hard). Another reason is because dorm beds are exceedingly tiny and it’s almost impossible to find a comfortable sleeping position. 

...maybe Dean was onto something when he suggested pushing their beds together. They should try that later.

On cue, Dean shifts and starts to wake, stretching out his legs under the covers and rolling his shoulders. Then he rolls over entirely, turning to face Castiel and press their lips together.

“Mornin’.”

“Good morning. What were you dreaming about?”

“Hmm?” Dean blinks drowsily at him, then his face splits into a grin. “Hey! You were in my dream!”

“What happened?” Castiel asks. Hearing about Dean’s blood-soaked dreams don’t horrify him quite like they used to, last semester. 

“Well, you were an angel - don’t make that face, not like the ‘fat baby in a diaper’ kind, you were awesome - and you had these huge wings, I could see their shadows. And I was in Hell, and you pulled me out.” Dean pauses for a moment, smiling thoughtfully. “Huh. That’s the first time you’ve ever been in one of my dreams. There’s always me, and sometimes Sammy, but everyone else comes and goes. I wonder if I’ll dream about you from now on, too.”

“I hope so,” Castiel can’t help saying, the idea making something warm bloom in his chest. “Does this make me -”

“I swear to god, Cas, if you make a joke about being ‘the man of my dreams’, this relationship is over.”

Castiel makes an affronted noise. “After I rescued you from Hell?”

“Yeah, yeah, it wasn’t that impressive. You were kind of a dick, to be honest." Dean waves a hand dismissively. "But no, really, I’ve been thinking. I’ve always had these crazy dreams, ever since I was a kid. What if they’re like…a glimpse into a past life or something?” He grins, eyes gleaming at the idea. “Maybe I was a badass monster hunter in my past life, and that’s why I dream about it all the time.”

Castiel ponders this for a moment, then finally shakes his head. “No. You cried at _March of the Penguins_ , there's no way you were a ‘badass monster hunter’ in another life.”

Dean makes an insulted sound, smirk evaporating. “Orphaned baby penguins, Cas! Orphaned baby penguins!”

Castiel starts to chuckle, tucking his forehead against Dean’s collarbone, but Dean isn’t letting it go, ranting even as his fingers start combing through Castiel’s hair.

“You know what, I take it back, you were the _lamest_ angel - you still had that stupid baggy trenchcoat, what kind of angel wears a trenchcoat - and I’d be a way better monster hunter than you’d be an angel, thank you very -”

Castiel kisses him, which seems to mollify Dean. His palm curls around the nape of Castiel's neck, kissing back eagerly, until Castiel breaks the kiss to lay his head back on Dean's chest.

“So tell me more about your dream.”


End file.
